There’s this moment of loss and longing, after you eat it, realizing that you’re just never going to eat the way you used to, ever again.

Yeah yeah, eating to excess is bad, blah blah blah, but you know what? I liked my holiday indugences. I liked being able to eat a whole bag of potato chips if I felt like it. I liked eating three bagels in an afternoon on occasion. I liked sitting around eating chocolates and watching mindless tv.

I didn’t used to do these things all the time, obviously, but if I *wanted* to, the option was there. Sure, I still *could* eat a whole bag of potato chips, but I’ll have a headache for an hour, my whole body will slow down to a crawl, and it’ll send my sugar into a low/high rollercoaster that’ll take me a week to get back under control.

The sense of joy and delight associated with eating really good food to excess just isn’t there anymore.

I started plugging in dates to price tickets for going home for the holidays, and I realized that one of the reasons (besides the price) that I’ve been putting it off is because I’m really going to miss my boyfriend when I’m gone (insert vomiting noise here, yeah).

It’s stupid, lame, and, I suppose, a fleeting feeling. We’ve been going out less than two months (we were friends for a couple months before that as well). *Everything* looks better at the beginning. Eventually, you get sick of each other, or he stops saying “I miss you” and he dumps you cause it’s too serious or you dump him (or her) because the idea of an entire future together is just too terrifyingly permanent, like death.

The thing is, everybody tells you how to fall in love. There are tons of movies and songs and media sobfests and bitchsessions all about how to start up a whirlwind romance. It’s hot and fun and you laugh and have a great time.

You start a lot of romances in your lifetime, but nobody ever teaches you how to *stay* in love. Nobody teaches you how to stay together.

It’s like a writer who never finishes a book. You’ve got all these great beginnings. You’re great at writing beginnings. But slogging through the middle? Wrapping up the end? You’ve got no experience with that.

Falling is easy, sticking is hard.

At least in the case of writers, we have lots of more or less successful examples to look at to teach us how. But in real life? How many really loving, successful relationships do you see? Relationships where people stayed together for some reason other than “well, I can’t do better” or “we can’t afford to break up” or “I guess it would hurt the kids if we split.”

And maybe that’s the thing – at one time or another, what kept some longterm couples together was just that one thing. Some fatalistic thing, and they pushed through it, and things were better (as Steph once half-jokingly said to me “Me and the Old Man got engaged because we needed more than love to keep us together”). But man, you know, my fear of getting stuck in a relationship that’s ALL that – that’s based on two people sticking together out of something other than wanting, something less than mutual respect and friendship… that’s hard to swallow.

The problem with constantly waiting and worrying over the ending of a relationship is that you lose all the good stuff in-between. You miss the missing; you fail to enjoy the laughter, the amazing sex, the verbal sparring, the pancakes in the morning, because you’re always waiting for that moment when you lose it.

Thing is, I guess, I already lost this particular boyfriend once for one miserable week where we both looked and felt like death. We came back to it, because being miserable sucked goats, and we laugh a whole hell of a lot more together than apart, but how long does that last? How long until the next time? Until one of us flips out again or we get bored with each other? Maybe once we’re bored with each other, the break won’t be as painful, or as hard. We can hope.

Thing is, you know, I’m tired of being afraid of everything and living through something expecting it to end. I’m tired of writing hot beginnings whose tough middles I can’t make it through. I want an ending hotter than my beginning, and a middle that’s hotter than both. I just don’t have a roadmap on how to do that.

People talk a lot about the sort of courage it takes to be a writer, to put yourself out there. It takes a lot of courage to live fully, too, to put your heart out there. It’s going to hurt either way. Sometimes it’s pretty scary not knowing where you’re going. Exhilarating, terrifying, beautiful. An adventure. But fucking scary.

We lose everybody, in the end. If not to a breakup then to death or disaster. The ending always comes, whether or not we’re prepared for it. Unlike fiction, there’s no putting it off or setting it aside.

I want to find out how this one is going to end, no matter how much it scares the hell out of me. Because I wouldn’t trade this beginning for anything, even if it’s going nowhere; even if it ends tomorrow.

If I hadn’t read the book, I don’t think I’d have any idea what was going on. The characters were entirely unsympathetic. Instead of good people made bad by bad circumstances, they were all (with the exception of Clooney) a bunch of black roaches feeding off a dying city (not gray roaches, but thoroughly black). The plot was mishmash, confusing. It tried to follow the story through all three POVs, starting with the least sympathetic, moving to the most, then back to another unsympathetic character.

Jumping heads was supposed to clarify what is, in fact, a really complex plot. Instead, it needlessly complexified it (yes, I’m declaring that a word).

I write up SOPs for software installation, hardware maintenance, corporate store applications. I write “news” stories and announcements for our intranet frontpage. I create PowerPoint presentations from talking-point outlines. I write and edit marketing copy, business proposals, executive resumes. I write and revise panel descriptions, sales rep letters, insurance business proposals and company histories and all of our web content.

I have written talks about tax history, documents about how to use our timekeeping system and how to create service tickets. I’ve written sales policies, revised the company handbook, formatted and reviewed hotel directions, convention agendas, and loan applications. I’ve created order forms and trade brochures and email campaigns and edited four hundred pages of operations manual – twice.

I have written everything, and when I didn’t know how to write it, I googled it and found formats and examples and ideas. I’m constantly learning about how to write sales pitches, persuasive copy, and business proposals, because you can never be too good at writing those, and you can always be better.

And I’ve spent the last couple of weeks working on synopses, one-line elevator pitches, pitch paragraphs, pitch packages, pitch copy, because you can never be too good at writing those, either. I have never written this shit before, and it’s involved a lot of reading, a lot of searching, a lot of reviewing, a lot of writing and re-writing and starting over and reading.

It’s a small miracle, making a living as a writer. What people never understand, though, what everyone sighs over and makes eyes at, is that writing is a job. Like acting or modeling, it seems very glamorous, but I don’t think I realized exactly why it seemed so glamorous. I honestly thought all that glamor had to do with lots of money and hot bed partners and expensive toys and trips to Paris.

We’ve attached all sorts of associations with these sorts of professions, but the glamor of making it as a creative person isn’t actually about the work itself, or even the expected perks, I think. Work is work.

The real glamor, the real perk, is the idea of spending your days doing something you love.

Sometimes I think that’s what the allure is of any place: this idea that you can live somewhere, with someone, doing something, you love.